“It may not reach her; indeed, how can it?”
“These things always reach head-quarters sooner or later,” was the reply, so far as it reached Zulima, for that moment the horse which Ross rode became tired of inaction and shied around suddenly; his rider with difficulty secured the letter, which was crushed in his hand, as he hastened to draw the curb, while an envelope, which had contained it, fluttered to the ground.
“Let it go, let it go. I have all that is important,” cried Ross, checking his companion, who was about to dismount, and reining in his impatient steed with difficulty.
The next instant they were both out of sight.
Scarcely had they gone, when Zulima sprang from her covert and seized the envelope. It was her husband’s writing, addressed to Ross, the post-mark Philadelphia—a letter from her husband and not to her! Zulima held her breath; she looked wildly around, as if in search of something that could explain this mystery; then her eyes fell to the writing again. Tears, that seemed half fire, flashed down upon the paper; her lips began to quiver, she covered the fragment of paper with passionate kisses, and then cast it from her, exclaiming wildly, “Not to me—not to me!”
Zulima returned home that day as she had never done before. The slow, creeping pace, so eloquent of depression and baffled hope, that had previously marked her return home, was exchanged for a hurried tread and excited demeanor. She was fully aroused to a sense of wrong, to a knowledge that some mystery existed which involved her own future. All her suspicions were vague and wildly combined with such facts as lay before her, but not the less powerful and engrossing.
She found Ross in the hall, standing by the back-door, which opened to the garden, and talking to his traveling companion. The conference was checked as she came up, and she heard Ross say, quickly, “Hush! hush! she is here!” Then the two stepped out and sauntered slowly along the garden-walk. Zulima followed their footsteps, and with the wild fire of excitement burning in her cheeks and eyes.
Ross turned to meet her. His look was calm, his voice compassionate.
“We have heard nothing. There was no letter,” he said, interpreting the question that hung on her lips.
“No letter to any one?”